


Miles to Go

by merionettes (acchikocchi)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canon-Typical Violence, During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, i played 140 hours of fire emblem and all i got was this lousy otp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24271015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi/pseuds/merionettes
Summary: Sylvain's soulmark hadn't always behaved like this.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 10
Kudos: 96





	Miles to Go

**Author's Note:**

> mid-timeskip, crimson flower. title from robert frost. thanks to fabi for beta and to the rest of fire emblem tlist -- kii, chrisi, jenny, et al -- for general cheerleading as i livetweeted my descent into hell.
> 
> edit: now with an INCREDIBLE illustration by [reallyyeahokay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reallyyeahokay). the palette, the style, the symbolism, i'm speechless.

They were three miles out of Arhile Village when the mark on Sylvain's wrist flared with heat. The resupply had taken place under the cover of night; the villagers of Arhile were loyalists, for the most part, but loyalty didn't fill empty bellies – especially midwinter in Faerghus. They all knew that from bitter experience, now.

So much for precautions. Clearly, they'd been seen, and clearly, they'd been tracked. And as of precisely this moment, the Imperial scouts who'd done the tracking would know they'd gotten it right. 

Sylvain whistled and held up a gauntleted fist. The ragged column ground to a halt.

He cast an eye over the group as he waited for Ingrid to ride up from the rear. A mismatched patchwork of fighters even before winter began to take its toll: former Gautier cavalry, those with mounts small and agile enough to adapt to hit and run tactics; onetime professionals working on a promise of future pay they must know had next to no chance of realization; the pitiful remnants of local militias smashed by the Empire, burning for payback. They all looked one and the same now. Clothing patched and armor poorly mended. Faces sharp with hunger, dark with exhaustion. Hardened. Desperate. Starving animals, or near enough, and equally dangerous.

Snow muffled the sound of hooves as Ingrid and her chestnut trotted up. Sylvain didn't bother to keep his voice down. "We've got company coming."

Several emotions passed over Ingrid's face in quick succession – denial, weariness, resignation, resolve. "Right," was all she said. "Think we can outrun them?"

"Yesterday, maybe. Weighed down with fresh supplies?" Sylvain shook his head. "They'll send a fast, light squad to cut around front and tie us down, then hit us with a full battalion from behind. We'd be wiped off the map." 

He rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. "Better we pick our ground and leave a detachment there. Our territory, our tactics. If we can force their strike squad to draw back, that should buy enough time to make a break for it. Meanwhile, the rest of the troop makes for the Forest. Once we have cover we'll have the advantage. Their commanders know that as well as we do." – a lesson they had crammed down Imperial throats inch by vicious inch.

"And if the detachment can't force them back?"

Sylvain shrugged. "Then worst case scenario, we lose them, and it's a handful of men instead of the whole troop."

Ingrid pressed her lips together. She knew exactly what Sylvain wasn't saying, and he knew she knew it. Useless arguing, though. Sending Sylvain with the main force defeated the whole point. 

After a minute Ingrid exhaled forcefully through her nose, more similar to her chestnut than Sylvain was willing to risk his life pointing out. "Fine. Give me the map."

Sylvain pulled off his gauntlets and fumbled with the ties of his leather pouch, fingers made clumsy by cold. "There's a lancer from around here who might—"

"The one who—Yes. I know him. I'll have him look at it." The one who looks like Ashe, he was sure Ingrid was going to say, because it was what he always said to himself. That wasn't fair, though; maybe he should start telling himself that Ashe was the one who looked like this guy. After all, he knew the lancer was alive. Who could say the same about Ashe?

"Sylvain." Ingrid bit her lip. "You're sure?"

Sylvain held up his wrist and tapped it. His lips stretched in the shape of a smile. "Word of the Goddess."

A sick expression crossed Ingrid's face. She still couldn't take the jokes. Without a word, she turned and galloped back down the line. "Lyam, Lyam of Fhiarnus Town in Gautier territory—" 

Dawn was turning the snow a rosy pink, the tint of so many battlefields. Alone at the head of the line, Sylvain gave in to temptation and tucked his gauntlets under one arm, tugged back his wool shirtsleeve.

It looked the same as always. A stylized depiction of a sword, black lines heavy and spare, like a tattoo but – not. Something in the lines that made it unnatural, or rather, too natural. The hand of the Goddess or of nature, not of man.

Sylvain brushed two fingers across the mark. It flared again, hot and angry. He felt his mouth twist in a smile. 

"Long time no see, Felix," he said. 

* * * 

Lyam the lancer had an eye for terrain. Sylvain surveyed the landscape from his position atop a gentle ridge, secluded in a grove of pines. Clear sightline in all directions, dips and hollows to shield the archers, clusters of evergreen shrubs for cover, and the ridge itself shrouding Ingrid and the rest of the troops as they vanished north in the distance.

Overall, the local terrain wasn't the worst they could ask for, especially for an encounter with an Imperial battalion. The Imperial army was regimented, disciplined, unstoppable if you met them on clear and level ground – say, the Tailtean Plains – but also slow-moving, even clumsy. Here in the south of Sylvain's family's territory, the land was rolling and rocky, fields interspersed with patches of woodland up to the outskirts of the Black Forest, at which point light and space were rapidly swallowed in its depths. Their troops were nimble and surefooted, quick to regroup and quick to adapt. The only question was whether they'd be facing the Imperial army proper, or something else entirely.

His wrist was throbbing.

It hadn't always done this, or at least, Sylvain didn't think so. Certainly not when they were at the Academy – although he supposed they'd never been far enough apart to know, then. But he was willing to bet the rations he didn't have that it began the day Felix rode out with Edelgard in the teeth of every honor he'd ever borne and every tie he'd ever had. 

Sylvain wished, halfheartedly, that he could ask Linhardt. Linhardt would have loved the excuse to poke and prod at someone else's soulmark to his heart's content. Sylvain hoped he'd gotten out of it, somehow, that he was sequestered deep in a library far away from all this. 

Wishful thinking, the sort he sometimes thought had been burned out of him completely by now.

His mount, a bony grey mare with a kill list as long as his arm, shook her mane and snorted. "Sorry," Sylvain whispered, giving her a pat on the side of the neck. "Promise I'm paying attention."

"Sir!" A voice at his elbow out of nowhere; on foot, their best scouts were noiseless. "Report Imperial squad approaching from the southwest. Two dozen strong, primarily mounted, a half dozen foot riding double."

Good, their approach would be lit by the rising sun. And it was unlikely, but if they were all mounted, then maybe – "Livery?" 

"Standard Imperial issue." The scout hesitated. "Except one." 

The wisp of hope died as quickly as it had flickered to life. "Watch out for that one," was all Sylvain said. The scout nodded furiously; in this part of the country, the face of the former Fraldarius heir wasn't exactly unknown. "Time?"

"Estimate fifteen minutes."

"Ready positions." 

The scout saluted and disappeared. Sylvain waited. The sun crept higher, gilding the snow and the bare branches of the trees, glinting off the Imperial livery as on the far side of the rocky fields the advance squad came into view.

Sylvain waited. High above, a crow cawed twice. The grove was silent. 

He could make out individual shapes as they approached. A bright spot of turquoise amidst the red and black. Closer. Closer. Faces clear now. The Imperials couldn't quite break their habit of regimentation; even a small squad like this one had formed itself into four ranks, moving with unity and precision. And there, in the front rank –

Sylvain raised his arm. Around him, he could feel the mounted units snapping to attention, knew that below the ridge the rest were alert and waiting, attuned to his command.

He took a deep breath.

"Fire!"

The archers sprang up from where they'd lain concealed in the hollows and let loose a fusillade. 

It took out a quarter of the front rank at once. Not Felix, though; Felix was already off his borrowed horse and halfway to cover. He'd been moving from the moment Sylvain opened his mouth.

Sylvain pushed down the choking, conflicting knot of feelings and called, "First wave, engage!"

From the east of the ridge came a third of their mounted troops charging forward with bows nocked. Their aim was mediocre, but it was purely a distraction, cover as the foot archers scrambled for safe distance. What mattered was how quickly they swung their bows away and got their swords in hand as the charge swept forward until they hit the Imperial squad – and then danced away again. Hit, harry, retreat. Hit, harry, retreat. Then – 

"Second wave, engage!" 

From the west, another third of the mounted along with the scattered foot who couldn't aim for love or money, lance, axe, and sword alike. The Imperial soldiers who couldn't scatter fast enough were trapped between two fronts, distracted and drawn out of formation. Then last but not least – 

"Here we go," Sylvain said, flashing a grin at no one in particular, and called, "Charge!"

The half dozen mounted units waiting in the grove thundered down the ridge and smashed into the center of the Imperial squad. Then they were in the thick of it and there was no time to strategize: only to react.

It wasn't their first skirmish facing each other. The first time Sylvain hadn't understood why his mark felt hot, why his wrist hurt, right up until he cut down an Imperial soldier and from the other side of the man's slumped corpse Felix stared back at him. 

For a minute the noise of battle ceased; the stream of battlefield calculations in Sylvain's mind halted; maybe the whole world stopped. 

Then an Imperial goon had come at him with a roar and an axe the size of his head and when he'd finally disposed of the man he'd looked up and Felix was gone.

They'd tacitly avoided each other on the field ever since. The connection couldn't be turned to an advantage, anyway; whatever aid – or damage – it dealt, it dealt to both of them equally. But Felix was Edelgard's man in the north; he was the only member of the inner circle who truly knew Faerghus, its land and its people and its leaders, and he would keep going after Dimitri until he dropped dead on the ground. There would be no quick end to this.

The mark said Felix was – somewhere, not too close but not too far. Sylvain put it aside. Slash, thrust, dodge, thrust again, guiding the mare with his knees, one arm bearing his shield, the other twirling the Lance. A careless slice and blood splattering his face. He hated it when it got in his eyes. Surprisingly quiet, compared to clashes with the army proper: grunts, scattered war cries, the occasional scream. He barely even heard them any more.

A body slid halfway off the Lance. Sylvain shook it free and swung it up, heart pounding, for the next opponent. But there wasn't anyone else there. He'd been pushed off to the west, across from the ridge. There were three Imperial corpses at his mount's feet, along with one of his own people, face down, unidentifiable.

He was breathing hard, sweat soaking his hair and the back of his neck. His shoulder ached. He took a deep breath and scanned the field. Where to go – 

He counted, and counted again. Then with a hot surge of triumph, he understood that yes, the Imperial squad was down to half strength, and his troops hadn't taken anything close to those casualties. Hard to tell, but he thought less than half a dozen. They'd passed the threshold; the skirmish was theirs.

He could see the Imperial squad commander looking around the field and counting the same numbers. Mouth tight, she glanced in his direction. He grinned and waggled the Lance at her. Then let the grin drop off his face and lifted the Lance, straightened up in the saddle and leaned forward, ready to charge – 

The commander cupped both hands around her mouth and bellowed, "Fall back!" 

Sylvain laughed. That was the cue for his troops as well; once the Imperial squad fell back, it was time for them to ride hell for leather north for the Forest. Across the field the Imperials began to disengage, falling back and forming up in a tight group, a practiced tactic. Sylvain's people for the most part let them go, falling back themselves as riders swooped down on foot units to double up for the ride.

It was always hard to let an enemy go, though, especially if that enemy had destroyed your home and your livelihood and your comrades-in-arms. " _Orders!_ " Sylvain heard himself calling in a hoarsened voice as one of the militia lunged after her retreating opponent with a snarl. "Remember your orders!" He glanced up at the ridge. There they were going, vanishing in twos and threes over the top. 

Back to the field: the Imperial squad was in formation and retreating at a rapid clip. There was just one small knot of fighting left, snug against the foot of the ridge, and with a curse Sylvain spurred his horse toward one of the former Gautier men at arms struggling to hold his own against –

Sylvain realized his mark was still burning at the same time that he saw it was Felix, of course it was Felix, Felix who wouldn't know the meaning of "retreat" if you hammered it into his head with a mason's chisel. Sylvain didn't have to decide. As he watched, Felix leaped backward, out of the range of his opponent's swing, landed lightly on the balls of his feet – and how he did that in the snow Sylvain would never know – launched himself forward again and took the man's head off in one neat sweep. 

Sylvain reined his horse to a stop. The field was silent. No birds; no horses; no men. His heart beat high in his throat.

One careful moment, crouched, to make sure the opponent was really down. Then Felix took a deep breath, as he always did when the fight was over. He straightened up. Cast a wary eye around him. In a minute he'd see Sylvain. 

So he wasn't looking, and Sylvain was, as out of the evergreens loomed the lancer from Fhiarnus.

The shout ripped itself from Sylvain's throat. " _Felix!_ "

Felix's head snapped around. Their eyes met.

As the lance thrust forward Felix dropped to the ground, pivoted, swept up, and ran the lancer through the heart. 

Later, he'd think about the look on the lancer's face as he died. Later, lying in the dark in his shabby tent, tallying one more life lost at his hands, a life he'd taken as surely as if he'd wielded the sword. 

Later. Right now he couldn't take his eyes from Felix. Felix, who was staring at him as if he'd seen a ghost, sword loose in his right hand, the wrist that bore the black lines of the Gautier crest, the mark that must have burned white hot as Sylvain's mind had screamed, _Look out!_

Half a dozen corpses littered the bare meters between them. The sun shone on churned snow and mud, blood and viscera, trampled shrubs.

Sylvain opened his mouth. Worked his throat once, twice. Rasped, "Hey, Felix. How've you been?"

"What was that?" Felix demanded. When Sylvain didn't answer: "What were you _thinking?_ "

He knew the answer. Sylvain lifted his shoulders and let them fall again.

"You could have been rid of me for good. The Traitor of Faerghus, dead at the hands of a village lancer in a pathetic backwoods skirmish."

Sylvain cleared his throat. "Yeah, not like you to let your attention slip like that."

He hadn't understood until the words were out of his mouth; then he did. They stared at each other. A muscle jumped near Felix's mouth.

"Better get out of here before someone comes looking for me," Sylvain said softly.

"You're the one who should get out," Felix said, "unless you think you can hold off an entire Imperial battalion."

"Yeah, you're probably right." And then, because he couldn't help it, because he could never help it, no matter how stupid it was, now matter how much he knew better, because this was wrong, wrong, wrong – Sylvain said, "Felix, it's not too la—"

"Finish that sentence and I'll gut you like a boar," Felix snarled, and despite himself Sylvain reeled back in the saddle like he'd taken a body blow.

"Right," he said, after a minute. "Yeah. Guess that's my cue."

The grey mare picked her way through the carnage of the hollow, fastidiously avoiding gore and fallen weaponry alike. There was room for a full company to pass abreast. Sylvain guided her past Felix anyway, because why the fuck not.

Felix didn't look at him. Maybe that was why Sylvain drew the mare to a halt as they pulled even with him. Looked down from atop his mount at the glossy blue-black of Felix's hair, the rise and fall of his shoulders, his breath clouding in the chill air.

"Hey, Felix," he said.

Felix looked up. Sylvain couldn't remember the last time they'd been this close. His heart wanted to climb out of his chest. Felix could end it now if he wanted. He was fast enough. Sylvain wouldn't be able to react even if he wasn't.

"You've never tried to ask me."

The corner of Felix's lip curled up; it wasn't what anyone would call a smile. "Why would I waste time on a lost cause."

He didn't know what he'd expected, really, which didn't explain why it felt like something had been carved out of his chest. As usual, Felix cut to the heart of it: the difference between the two of them, in just a few words. 

Felix spoke again. "And it is. Isn't it."

He clearly didn't mean for it to be a question. And yet there was something there, just a flicker, just instinct, or maybe the pull of the mark, the pull of memory. Something in his voice, or maybe in his eyes. Something saying, _Tell me it's not._

Sylvain swallowed it down and nodded. "'Fraid so."

Felix snorted and crossed his arms. He didn't say anything. He didn't look away, though, eyes like burning coals fixed on Sylvain. Sylvain gently nudged his mount forward. 

"See you around, Felix," he said.

He felt Felix's eyes on his back all the way over the ridge and beyond, until he was safe under the cover of the forest and Ingrid was riding toward him with relief naked in her face, until the throb at his wrist faded to nothing.

It wouldn't last forever. One of these days, when they met on the field, Felix would listen to the pull of the mark and come straight for him. Sylvain wasn't worried, though. He knew how it would end, just as Felix surely did. They knew each other inside and out, down to the bones. They were soulmates, after all. 

And they both kept their promises.

**Author's Note:**

> i bought my first game console and played 140 hours of fire emblem in two weeks, ask me anything [@matchedpoint](http://www.twitter.com/matchedpoint)


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